I hate him for what he did. How he made me feel. I can still taste his lips on mine when I smell cigarettes, or let my mind wander too much. I can still feel his hands on my chest, still see what he forced me to experience.

And the worst part of it, is he wasn't someone I considered important in my life. I would go to work, maybe make a joke with him occasionally, and leave. He wasn't always on my mind like he is now.

So if I could kill him, and no one would know, and no one would be mad at me, or ask me why I did it, I would kill him.

I would kill the man who made me feel like I'm not safe in a room full of people. The man who made me feel like I'm crawling in my own skin. Made me feel the urge to scrub my mouth until it was raw, and it physically hurt me to swallow, or breathe in. And the man who made me need to cover up all my skin to avoid getting flashbacks, keep my mind busy at all times so I don't have to keep reliving it.

I've always thought that I could never kill someone, but right now, if I was given the opportunity, I think I might actually do it because of the way he's making me feel.

I am fortunate. There is no one in my life who is so heinous that I would like to see them dead by my hand.

For that, time travel would be necessary and I have a hard time deciding between two deserving persons, so I'll choose the one that committed an actual crime against my mother as opposed to just a father abandoning his children.

Orphaned at 16 months, her mother dying alone in a bathtub, having given birth at home to my mother’s younger brother, bleeding to death, and then, subsquently, her father leaving my mother and her siblings with different relatives, never to be seen again, was devastating for my mother.

But, his actions were not illegal.

Raping an innocent girl, that's illegal. As well as traumatizing. That single, horrifying, event destroyed her ability to have a healthy, warm, intimate relationship ever again in her entire life. She tried. She married my dad. But she couldn't bear the marriage bed. She never said anything against him, but she had nothing good to say about men in general. The lesson for me from her was always they cannot be trusted. Ever.

I was nearly fifty when her reaction to something made me ask if she had been raped when she was young. She burst into tears. She had never told anyone. Suddenly her life, who and how she was, made sense to me.

So, I would go back in time and I would kill that man before he saw my mom. Who knows, perhaps eliminating that one shattering event would have allowed her to have a better relationship with my dad and then perhaps he wouldn't have drowned his sorrows and then he might still be here and they could be celebrating their 57th wedding anniversary.

Might as well dream big....

Freedom has its price. Even in the thought of committing a crime, there is repercussion. To escape the consequences, say of murder, one would have to kill whatever is left of the conscience, which might otherwise gnaw in aftershock.

I am reminded of the three or more times Mother tried to poison Father.

Three in particular.

There was the time she attempted to lace his cigarettes. Something reminiscent of cherries. She was never quite dexterous, and the tamper showed. And anyway, dampness in tobacco typically puts a person off. Though, to be curt, at that point Father had only a vague inkling of what was up-- the rage beneath Mother's cold cynical wall of silence.

When she poisoned the tea, it was more obvious in odor. The scent of almond not characteristic of Lipton's orange pekoe. He poured it incrementally into the hardy potted snake plant, smacked his lips and told her it was delish. She tiptoed around the study in fervent curiosity, under various pretenses to peer in at him and after several hours declared: Jesteś twardy.

Hardy, and the plant wilted in the morning, and shriveled soon after.

It was in making pasta that the farce was dropped. It was not something Father told us of, but something we all witnessed. I was maybe 7 at the time, or just under. My Sister was two years older, and very sharp. Mother never cooked, but she insisted that night. Well after 9pm when everyone's nerves were shot, and fatigue was winning out over hunger, Sister mixed the order of the plates; and Mother nearly lost it. Trying her damnedest to retrace which plate to replace where, she settled grimly into her chair.

Two bites in and she was gasping for air.

It was Father who saved her.

I'm an artist. It's not a question of if. All my life is spent in plotting. Life and Death.

I have set my trade upon the Who, the What, the Where and all the usual Motif, that sharpens the Why. I don't know, and neither does he, or she. And they will look upon us, with slanted heads, and one eye squinted to the side, well-appointed from hair pin to tie, in best impression of the Intelligent, turning papers, looking for clues in our past. They will say, "this body... This Body..." sigh, and elaborate upon the paper doll, with such emphasis that the thin 3D will take on a central sign of the cross, an "X" exclusively penciled for the stake of criticism.

That is if the life is to be Immortalized; taken out of my hands, no longer "killable," with impunity. Set in the public domain, as artifact of character. They do not realize that That is my mummification that has been passed on. The deed is done.

In private, my creativity is mine; and I can murder any one protagonist in my time, with no consequence, in that their very existence is mine. Breath of my breath.

To give or deny.

In my own artistic realm, I am god.

I have only to stop. Stop creating (drawing, painting, sculpting, reading, writing) and another Body dies. A natural, inconsequential murder. Premeditated or manslaughter. A story ended prematurely. Or never taken up.

That is not a threat. It is a fact of my life. Characters live, and die by the hand of the Author, who sits outside the Law: a free killer.

10.03.2023

A Free Killer @Melpomene

There is a basic fact that lies overlooked in our inherent potentials. That glaring face of responsibility on the dual faced coin of our own personal choices.

These choices being the actualized fiber of who we are.

It is the idea that just because we can do something and do so without consequence, does not mean we have to.

This concept in conjuction with life being the main thing I hold sacred combine to allow for my answer to such a question.

Life being sacred means I respect it. I will not take it, and any who have it have my respect inherently; though respect can be lost situationally I grant it initially off the rip.

There have been bad people in my life and many who have harmed and even threatened my very livelihood, but the loss sustained to me through the mistreatment of that which I hold sacred would be a greater cost on my self than Any outsider could ever inflict.

So it is; that given a free pass to end a life, I would not take it; I would decline.

If I could get away with it, I would kill a killer, doing everyone a big favor. Of course, the sentiment would be even sweeter if I did this before they were to actually kill someone. Now I realize that such a twist makes me a killer before the would-be killer is, but you really can't have it both ways, can you?

My point is that with this curveball, I would have to be absolutely certain this person was going to kill someone. Soon? Well, not necessarily. They would have to kill someone at some point in the future. Does that really matter? Not to me.

How would I know my intended victim were going to kill someone? I JUST KNOW! Trust me. And if you don't trust me, then maybe you should wonder about your future.

And here is where this whole thing fucks with me. What if the person who I'm sure will kill someday feels the same about me? Just playing Devil's Advocate here, but if he were sure about me, then he would be killing me before I killed someone, which of course would be himself. I mean, he'd be right, wouldn't he? Would that be probable cause or just plain murder? Or would my way stand in court?

So, this guy... Should I fuck right back with him and kill myself? Imagine his surprise! Imagine his disappointment in not ridding the Earth of a killer himself. Further, what if I knew he was going to kill someone because that someone was himself? If he were planning suicide, should I kill him before he does it and take the credit for killing a killer?

Does it work like that? God, I hope so! It's only self-defense for goodness' sake!

I have long wished to kill a version of me,

that haas long been seen as evil, and warped myself to see my reflection as such, too.

Having that labeled pierced into my flesh for the effects of a personality disorder,

understudied and unmedicated when I was only fifteen,

and then forcing myself to wage war on something I cannot control is evil.

But, I am not evil. Evil exists in those that forced my mind to split-

from a sweet and innocent child into something of a war solider,

sent out in times of stress and who reacted like a beaten, angry animal.

Everything became a threat. A book thrown too close in my direction,

or dark promises that realistically held no weight.

What is a caged animal to do, when you fill its home with predators and try to burn its house down from the inside?

I am not evil.

I do not deserve to be euthanized, or ostrichized.

For that, I will kill every person that lives in my mind.

That spits anger, and spins fables where I am a villain.

I will kill everyone I have known, that thought trying to control a teenage girl who just needed to be protected, was okay to do.

Consumed with murder, my thoughts roil

A simple killing, nothing extraordinary, nothing with much spilled blood

Authorities must neither suspect nor pursue me as a person of interest

Despite my apparent lack of remorse.

It’s irrelevant that my deed favors anyone besides myself

I’m disposed to rid myself of this menace once and for all

The purge of a malignancy has festered too long behind my heart.

I shall free my ears of its wretched voice

I shall free my eyes of its vile look

I shall free myself of its smothering presence.

My lungs fill to capacity with the thought, and immerse in the fresh air

Crisp and welcoming as an island sunrise.

The wherewithal I have, presents no problem

There is an abundance of opportunity

To commit the crime and not suffer consequences

To plot and then carry out the perfect murder.

Isn’t it wonderful?

Do I have the nerve?

Am I a cold-blooded murderer?

Alas, if not for the courage of conscience

If not for the want of a blackened heart

I would kill my mother’s surgeon in a snap.

Tonight, human frailty sits at the head of the table

And again, dines as my master.

©2023 Bill Canepa

Though it would be obvious to say myself

The consequences are never being able to see if there was consequence

My worst enemy brings honor to my life

So I cannot kill him, id miss it too much

I couldn't kill a politician without a copy paste replacement pedophile

I think I'd kill my dad

That joke of a man hurt my sister, and he did it without consequence

so fair is fair